


Fallacy

by arthur_pendragon



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Basically One Long Hug, Canon Era, Jealous Arthur Pendragon, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2019-05-01 17:13:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14525415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arthur_pendragon/pseuds/arthur_pendragon
Summary: Merlin’s seeing a girl.Or that’s what Arthur thinks, anyway.





	Fallacy

**Author's Note:**

> cheer up, self.

Merlin’s seeing a girl.

Or that’s what Arthur thinks, anyway. Merlin isn’t in any mood to set him right; it feels _lovely_ to lord something over Arthur for once, to hide a harmless secret and watch Arthur pretend not to care.

“Won’t you tell me?” Arthur asks, unusually entreating. Merlin makes an insincerely thoughtful face at him—even if he’d wanted to ’fess up and say _you’ve just misunderstood things as usual, you prat_ , he wouldn’t do it in front of the king and all the court, would he—and tips a bit more wine into Arthur’s goblet.

“Arthur, about the knight hopefuls,” the king says, distracting Arthur, and Merlin slips away to hide in the shadows once again. Arthur chats with his father for a while, more relaxed than he’s been in a while; when it’s time for all of them to retire for the night Arthur courteously stands and waits until Uther nods at him—and then takes Merlin’s arm and drags him out of the hall. Merlin looks down with chagrin at the pitcher of wine still in his hands—the kitchenmaids will be in for a good show tomorrow when Merlin’s late returning it to the head cook—and lets himself be hauled back to Arthur’s room without so much as a word of conversation passing between them.

Arthur yawns, uninhibited, when the door closes behind him, and goes to stand beside his bed with his arms raised in front of him. Merlin sets the pitcher down on Arthur’s work table before he goes to his master, and starts pulling Arthur’s finery off; doublet, shirt, trousers—oh, no, wait, boots, how did he forget the boots. Truth be told, he’s been sneaking sips from the pitcher all night, and is quite sleepy himself.

Arthur snorts lightly as Merlin abandons the laces of the trousers to kneel. He doesn’t make Merlin’s job especially difficult tonight as he usually does, and even sits on the edge of the bed of his own volition so Merlin can push Arthur’s legs up and get the tight, unyielding leather things off.

Merlin doesn’t like it when Arthur’s quiet like this. Not because it means Arthur’s in danger of hurting himself via the onerous task of contemplation—though undoubtedly Merlin cares about that—but as Arthur never usually withholds the dubious honour of gifting Merlin with his interminable prattle unless he’s upset.

“Arthur?” Merlin says, looking up at his prince, still tugging at the infernal boots. Did Arthur purposely put on an old pair that morning to spite him? No, Merlin was the one to dress him, wasn’t he—ah, that wine really was quite potent, how could Arthur handle drinking cupfuls of it every day—one boot off. Progress.

Arthur hums, smiling softly. He’s staring at the window, at the moon already high in the sky, and the tune he’s trying to match is from a folk song Merlin’s surprised to recognise. Something about love, naturally.

“Arthur,” Merlin repeats, persisting, a tad bit worried now.

Arthur’s hand, previously a support on the soft mattress behind him, gently comes to rest on Merlin’s head. Merlin goes still.

He won’t deny it feels good—it’s _brilliant_ , even better when he considers it’s _Arthur’s_ hand, Arthur who normally doesn’t even touch Merlin unless it’s to leave a bruise in jest or anger—but that Arthur still won’t talk is troubling.

Arthur’s humming carries on in the stillness. If Merlin concentrated, he’d be able to pick out the exact stanza Arthur’s mumbling, but he can’t, not with the sweet thrill of Arthur’s fingers combing through his hair with something akin to affection, but Merlin can’t, mustn’t think like that. Instead, he savours the touch, memorising the feel of Arthur’s calloused fingers rasping across his scalp all the way from his hairline to his nape.

Of course, of _course_ there isn’t any fucking girl.

“Just,” Arthur says, when Merlin pulls off Arthur’s other boot to try and hide his unbidden tears. “Merlin, who is she?”

“Why is it so important for you to know?” Merlin says, reacting in knee-jerk insolence to Arthur as always. “Why must you possess every detail about my life? Can’t I keep some things to myself?”

“Everything I know about you, I treasure,” Arthur says, adding, “Oh, fuck, I’m drunk. That’ll be all for tonight, Merlin, you can leave now.”

“Your trousers,” Merlin says, standing up and grabbing Arthur’s hand as it falls to his side. Arthur grumbles good-naturedly and stands up. His amusement as Merlin fumbles at his laces is almost tangible, but Merlin gets the trousers off and fetches Arthur’s nightclothes in a jiffy.

“You’re seeing someone,” Arthur muses. “I want to know, since I am your friend.”

“You’re my best friend,” Merlin murmurs, not wanting to raise his voice and shatter the peace. Arthur yields to Merlin’s slow pull of the nightshirt over his head and sighs.

“And you’re mine,” he says, though it comes out a bit muffled through the cotton blocking him from Merlin’s sight.

It’s been some time since Merlin was able to say that about someone and have it be said about him. Hunith would be pleased if she knew of the unconditional faith Merlin has in Arthur; Will much less so. The thought makes him snicker.

Arthur glances at him inquisitively, hair ruffled from the strokes of fabric, the circlet that Merlin forgot completely about askew on his head. His gaze is unexpectedly vulnerable. Merlin smiles at him.

“I’m just very happy,” he explains, fettered no more by the effects of the wine.

Arthur hesitantly smiles back. His hand returns to Merlin’s head. Merlin leans into it, even as Arthur’s other hand comes up to cup Merlin’s neck and then slide beyond to his back to pull him into a hug.

Merlin hugs him back, as tight as he can, the fear that he will never get another chance like this gripping his heart. Sweat, dirt, grass, musk, a hint of jasmine; all make themselves known to his nostrils as he dares to rest his head against the side of Arthur’s.

“You’re mine, you’re all mine,” Arthur mutters, clutching at him in a way that sets Merlin gasping for lungfuls of air.

“Yes,” Merlin agrees. Wild horses couldn’t drag him off Arthur in that moment.

The nightshirt is a flimsy barrier between Merlin’s body and Arthur’s skin. Merlin bunches it in his fists at Arthur’s back and tries hard to memorise the feeling of his knees pressing against Arthur’s thighs. Already this embrace has gone on for far longer than what is appropriate. Merlin can’t find it in himself to give two fucks about it.

Arthur breathes unhurriedly as he holds Merlin, warmth blooming again and again over Merlin’s shoulder blade.

Merlin understands now, why Arthur chose silence earlier. Nothing he could say would ever convey _this_ , this deep, relentless wellspring of emotion, the depth of which Merlin knows with calm, terrifying certainty is endless—love, so perfect and yet so unfitting for what this is, a simple word resting on the dip of Merlin’s lower lip, aching to be voiced yet aware of its inadequacy—

“You’re thinking too much, shut up,” Arthur says. “How many times am I going to hug you like this? You’re an idiot, honestly, _Mer_ lin, but at least you have me to prevent your inflicting your stupidity on everyone else—”

“Fuck off,” Merlin mutters into Arthur’s ear.

“You’re my _best friend_ ,” Arthur sighs, as if he needs to say those words out loud, as if he’s never said them before, a selfish prince wondering at the treasure suddenly before him. “You’re—you’re… I…”

“Don’t say it,” Merlin whispers. The hand on the back of his head is a welcome pressure. “You don’t need to say it.”

“Everything,” Arthur insists, unwilling to say anything exceeding half-formed sentences. “Camelot. Heaven and earth. The skies. Entire armies. The gods themselves. I would do _anything._ ”

Merlin closes his eyes. Arthur hasn’t loosened his hold on Merlin one bit and in anyone else’s arms, Merlin’s ribs would have been complaining loudly and he would’ve pushed the person away, cracked a silly joke to defuse the tension but with Arthur, with Arthur Merlin can’t let go, Arthur is too precious and Merlin is every bit as selfish as Arthur but far, far greedier.

“This is brilliant,” he decides.

Arthur laughs, and freezes abruptly as Merlin ducks his head to briefly kiss his neck. Salty and soft is how Arthur’s skin feels and tastes against Merlin’s tongue.

“I think I ought to know,” Arthur begins, voice strangled. “Whom you’re seeing. So I can deem whether or not she is worthy of possessing your heart.”

“Ugh, fine,” Merlin says, giving up entirely, and fidgets a bit in Arthur’s grip. Arthur releases him at once, but Merlin can feel the ghost of his touch lingering on his skin, nearly as good as the real thing.

Arthur’s irises are almost silver in the moonlight striking his face. Merlin wonders if Arthur can see him or if he’s just a silhouette in the likeness of Arthur’s love. It doesn’t really matter, because Arthur seeks his eyes out accurately anyway, a lodestone responding to its lure.

“She has the most fond smile when she looks at me,” Merlin says.

Arthur falls back, because he’s an idiot and apparently actually believes Merlin.

“Peony-pink lips and eyes as blue as the sea. Her hair is the colour of Camelot’s gold coins and if I look at it in the sunlight I trip over my own feet and have to listen to all the knights making fun of me.”

Arthur swallows, but Merlin is glad to see that there’s a faint smile playing about his lips. He reaches for Arthur’s circlet and takes it off, placing it on the bedside table.

“She can be arrogant and demanding sometimes, but I dote upon her like no one else. She always does the right thing—well, almost always.”

“Almost?”

“Yeah, she once did this utterly awful thing to me, where she tried to punish me for no reason by pretending to be mad for a bloke called Cedric—”

Arthur bursts into laughter at that and steps into Merlin’s space again without hesitation. Merlin rests his elbows on Arthur’s shoulders and his chin in his palms. Arthur’s grin is broad and beautiful and of course _fond._

“She ought to be sleeping already and letting _me_ sleep but she can be a right twat, really, and isn’t even sorry about it. She’s going to return the wine pitcher I accidentally stole from the feast tomorrow morning and tell the head cook it wasn’t Merlin’s fault, she was just very jealous and urgently wanted a cuddle from her best friend.”

“I’m sure she’ll do as you ask this once.”

Merlin shakes his head and feigns exasperation. “If only she listened to me more often. She’s loved by everyone anyway,” he says, carrying on just to see Arthur openly beatific like this, and yes, he’s the most soppy bastard in all of Camelot, but he really, really doesn’t care. “Truth be told, I never thought to tell her of my affection for her until tonight. I didn’t think she felt anything for me. I actually thought—”

“Well, you’re an idiot, clearly she’s—”

“I know _now_ , obviously, I’m just saying she could stand to be a bit more—”

Arthur rolls his eyes and falls into bed with a groan. “You wouldn’t have me any other way,” he says, doing something vague with his arm.

“What are you whipping your hand in the air for?”

“Get into bed!”

Merlin kicks off his boots and sheds most of his clothes and falls into Arthur’s bed, too—right on top of Arthur, who grunts, pushes him off, and swats him in annoyance.

“Are you _sure_ I wouldn’t have you any other way?” Merlin says, nestling into Arthur's side in glee, all shyness lost.

Arthur snores noisily in response but fits himself to Merlin.

**Author's Note:**

> <3


End file.
